


muse.

by AlwaysInSonder



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Artemisarya continues to be my muse, Artist/Muse AU, F/M, Mind the rating bump, No explicit scenes just a bit of Adult Talk, Suggestive Themes, Two Shot, i literally got out of my exam isolation chamber just for her, plance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-16 11:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysInSonder/pseuds/AlwaysInSonder
Summary: There it was again – that tension. It was almost though all the atoms surrounding them had stilled and even on a quantum level, the only electric charges were between them. She shivers as his eyes dropped to her lips, but his hand drops before her fantasies could take over. And just like that, it dissipates.orPidge agrees to be a live model for a friend of a friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemisarya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Artemisarya).



> Based on [Artemisarya's](https://artemisarya.tumblr.com/post/185759156686/guess-who-spent-too-much-time-on-this-moi) masterpiece.

She’s drenched by the time she enters his building. The tiny, broken umbrella of hers had provided little to no shelter and if it weren't for her denim jacket, the entire lobby would know how cold she is as she'd neglected to wear a bra. Even so, she is already getting strange glances from the other residents. As Pidge squeezes the rainwater out of her hair in the elevator, the tight, anxious pull in her chest returned.

Oh no, not again.

She enters his apartment as she always does; slow and hesitant. The usual scents greet her – paint, charcoal, fresh paper and  _him_. Ascent she can only describe as warm, clean and plainly, mouth-wateringly inviting. She’s been here enough times to know that if he really was a serial killer, he would have been done with her ages ago. He hasn’t done or said anything that made her feel unsafe nor has he made her feel uncomfortable in any way. If anything, of all the people in her life, she feels most at ease with him. That bothers her.

It’s been a few months now since she’d agreed to model for an artist; an opportunity that would have made her balk a year ago. But a year ago, she wasn’t living on just her research stipend. With the redundancies in her old part-time job, she wasn’t in a position to be picky. Her roommate, Hunk, had been the one to introduce them.

_“He’s a good friend from the Garrison.”_

_“An artist that went to a military academy?!”_

_“Yeah, long story short: He dropped out to take care of his sick mother and picked up painting in his spare time. Turns out he’s got a natural gift for it, who knew?”_

_Pidge’s expression softens at the mention of his mother. There were more things to him that she didn't know. “Is she...okay?”_

_“Hm, his mom? Yeah, she’s fine. Moved back to Varadero to live with Lance’s grandparents.”_

_She doesn’t even realize her shoulders were tense until they relax. “Why is he paying for a ‘muse’ anyway?”_

_“He saw a picture of you on my timeline and asked if I could get you to model for him. I told him you weren’t into that stuff and you were probably busy job-hunting and that’s when he offered to bump up the pay.”_

She knows that the palpitations begin whenever she sees the broad outline of his shoulders - clothed or otherwise. He’d be hunched over, working diligently on a canvas or a sketch pad, occasionally glancing up with those deep blue eyes of his to skim over her face and body in ways that made her flush. They get worse when his hands – always so _warm_ – would trace gently over her arms and legs, pulling her into natural poses and easing whatever apprehension in her with that easy smile of his.

The strange feeling, the fluttering in her chest? _That,_ she feared the most.

She tries to reason with herself that anyone would feel uncomfortable being appraised. Being a ‘muse’ was harder than she’d anticipated, but she needs the money and her measly stipend from the university is nowhere enough to cover rent and other miscellaneous costs that came with the burden of existence. This is a job for her. He’s doing his job and she’s there as a subject matter; not a distraction and certainly not as a romantic interest. Whatever it was, she needed to compartmentalize her feelings, confront him or find another job.

_"Anyone ever tell you that you how expressive your eyes are?" Lance murmurs as his charcoal glides across his sketchbook. He pauses for a moment and his eyes flit upwards to her. Her breath hitches as his gaze travels down the dip of her waist and up the curve of her hips. He is four feet away from her - not touching her in the slightest - and yet she feels as though it were his hands that had traveled up her body. He returns his attention to his sketch and Pidge let out a soft, shuddering breath._

_"Not really," she replies plainly, putting everything in her to look disaffected. Never mind if she is bare as the day she was born in front of a man she was decidedly not dating nor sleeping with. "Scary, perhaps."_

_To her surprise, Lance chuckles. She really wishes he didn't. He sets aside his sketch and grabs the throw on his couch to shroud her body. "Take five. You seem a little more tense today. Stress at work?"_

_Pidge flushes at his consideration, but appreciates it all the same. He's basically seen everything there is to her, but still somehow senses her unease of being so exposed. "No...Not really. My research is going great."_

_"Yeah?" Lance smiles, sitting back on his stool and working on, what she assumes, the original sketch. His eyes lift and he gives her a warm smile. "Tell me more."_

_She glances out the window with a blush, pulling the throw closer around her form. "We're three weeks ahead of schedule and I'm looking at a very real possibility to getting another grant. I...I'm just relieved, really."_

_So why was she so tense?_

_There is a quiet pause on Lance's end and she almost turns his way, but stops herself._

_"...Love problems?"_ _The suggestion makes her whip her head to look at him and it must be the incredulous look on her face that makes him laugh. "I guess not."_

_She leans her now-warm cheek on her hand and sighs, looking out the large, bay windows of his apartment. It is raining that night; she wonders if he'd offer to drive her home again. "What about you?" she begins conversationally._

_"Hm?"_

_"Any recent lovers? I'm sure you have plenty. Ladies love the artist-types don't they?"_

_He throws his head back and laughs. Pidge blinks at him. She wasn't expecting that response. She'd fully anticipated his usual gloats of his conquests. There is something different to him that day, and it makes her uncomfortable. Frustratingly, in the best possible way._

_"There is a lady in my life," he sighs with a slight smile, glancing back down to his sketch and adding a singular stroke. "Pity she doesn't like the artist type."_

_"Oh." Pidge doesn't know why she feels disappointment, but as she usually does, she shoves the thought away instead._

She closes his front door behind her. Today, she doesn’t see the familiar outline of his back at his favorite spot by the window. His easel is still positioned there, and she spots his sketchbook precariously perched on the edge of his stool. A few pieces of charcoal were lined on the shelf of his easel, likely for their session today. She glances around her, wondering where he was. She was a _little_ early for their session – and no, she wasn’t _that_ eager – but it was a rare time he wasn't in his apartment. If he wasn't obsessively cleaning paint off his floor, he was cooking up meals for the both of them or working on his commissions. 

“Lance…?” she calls out softly. Though he’d always leave the door unlocked for her, she didn’t think it right to barge in without him greeting her at the door. As she journeys further into the expansive apartment, she finally hears muffled singing and the sound of running water. She sighs in relief and sets down the small box from the bakery on his kitchen counter. Garlic knots, his favorite.

She jumps as she hears a thud behind her and turns to see his sketchbook on the floor, open at a random page. It takes all of two seconds for her to grab it and pore through its contents. For all his openness and ease of character, Lance hardly lets her see anything other than his final, completed works. There’s almost always a bashfulness in him that only feeds into her suspicions more and was giving her hopes that she dares not entertain. Not if she wants heartbreak.

As she turns each page, her cheeks grow pinker to a point where she feels feverish. She hurriedly flips past the sketches of her undressed - she was not mentally prepared for those - and stops at the latest one. She doesn’t recognize the woman, but there’s a familiarity to her that unsettles her. She’s enchantingly beautiful, wistful and so lovingly depicted with painstaking detail.

From the way her hair falls softly around her shoulders; a tendril or two brushed over a shoulder, to the faint dusting of freckles on her decolletage. She’s lounging on the stuffed chair by his window, her cheek cradled with one hand, gazing dreamily out the window. She remembers sitting on that couch - but it had been when they’d taken a break. How could she have not been aware he was drawing her?

Her eyes are captivating and gentle and she does not know how, even as a woman of science, that the man had rendered four-dimensional emotion on a two-dimensional space. There’s longing in the woman’s eyes and a softness in them that makes her heart squeeze. Is this how she looks to him? This couldn’t possibly be _just_ her.

“That’s my favorite one."

She jumps and drops the sketch pad, turning to see Lance in nothing more but a towel tied dangerously low around his hips. He smiles – that blasted easy-going smile that enraptured her the first time – and she pulls her eyes away before they wandered south, her face burning. Why is she acting like a thief who’d been caught? She was merely looking at a sketch – of _herself_ no less. Surely, she had a right to that?

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, hastily bending down to pick it up to set it back on the stool. “I…It fell over and it was open, and I know you said to be patient, but I just wanted to- “

“Pidge. It’s okay.”

She stops mid-ramble but refuses to meet his eyes still. She wasn’t even going to  _glance_ his way. Not with his state of undress. Least of all, when she knows now how _hungry_ her gaze gets whenever he draws her without his shirt on.

“I should have shown you that a long time ago. I just…It just feels private. Y’know?” She doesn’t realize he’s blushing himself till a hand gently tilts her chin upwards.

There it is again – that tension. It is as though all the atoms surrounding them had stilled and even on a quantum level, as impossible as it was, the only electric charges were between them. They had been here before. Many times, with his proximity unbearably close and his gaze unwavering on her.  She shivers as his eyes move to her lips, but his hand drops before her fantasies could take over.

And just like that, the tension dissipates.

“Wait here,” he murmurs.  He disappears into his room and air finally finds its way back into her lungs.

_You fucking idiot._

She quietly berates herself. Of course, it _is_ all in her head. Being cooped up in a research lab all day has made her nothing more than a ball of unresolved tension and she was projecting her needs onto the closest handsome man. 

No, she is not in love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Fromageinterrupted for beta-ing this! ♡

He re-emerges with a wife-beater and jeans – something that somehow makes her feel mildly disappointed and relieved simultaneously – and a towel for her. 

“Go on, take a nice, hot shower. Wouldn’t want my muse freezing to death on the job.”

“Right,” she smiles tightly at him. He returns it easily and holds out a hand to her. She stares at it stupidly. Did he want a handshake? 

“Your jacket?” 

She flushes and quickly discards her sopping wet denim jacket. She realizes too late that her chilled state was now more apparent to him and she quickly shrouds her chest with the towel, swiveling to march towards his shower. What good are her brains if it fails to work when she needs it most? She glances over her shoulder and sees Lance’s gentle smile as drapes her jacket over his arm. 

Why was she torturing herself like this? She was a scientist. Well, almost one. Once she completes her doctorate, she can proudly join the ranks with her entire family. But what good would a thesis do if she does not apply herself in reality? She has a question - a hypothesis, sure - and the only manner of getting her answer, is through experimentation. 

Her footsteps pause and a strange sensation that could only be described as being possessed overtakes her. She turns to him, watching his relaxed stance tense as he senses her gaze. He lifts his head slowly, carefully appraising her expression. “Pidge…?” 

She wonders what expression colors her face now. Bewilderment? Lust? Or worse, like that sketch, full of yearning and desire? He knows. He _had_ to know what she feels and she knows her brain too well to think herself delusional. 

“Is something wrong?” 

It’s difficult to breathe when he looks at her like that; a softness in his eyes that she really isn’t deserving of, but she pushes through. “That drawing of me...it’s beautiful.” 

She’s a coward. Her head hangs, but Lance’s breath hitches. 

“It is,” he replies and takes a step forward. There’s an odd look now on him. Was it hope? His eyes are wide, looking at her as though he was urging her to speak her mind. At least, she hopes she isn’t projecting. 

“I don’t know...that was a weird thing to say. Sounds almost narcissistic, huh?” She’s backtracking now. Her conscience screams at her, but she has already gone too far.  “But you have a knack for making plain Janes-”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he interrupts. He quickly closes the distance and reaches for her hand, but she steps back just as quickly. 

“I don’t think you realize...how much I- how beautiful you are.” 

“A bit of a corny thing to say, but thanks.” 

“I mean it, Pidge,” he frowns at her and there’s a shiver down her spine that she knows is not from a stray raindrop. Lance wasn’t someone that was easily ruffled and even with the rudest clients, he always manages a smile. This moment  seems to be an exception. “Stop that.” 

There’s only a slight tinge of irritation in her, and her ego doesn’t allow her to acknowledge that it was out of embarrassment for his callout, but it was enough of a spark. Curse her quick temper. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she huffs indignantly. “You probably say flattering stuff like that to all your muses. Aren’t all artist types like that?” 

It horrifies her that she’d blurted her innermost insecurities like that, but she would be lying to herself if she didn’t feel a sense of satisfaction when Lance pales. For once, he was speechless and even if it was only for a few seconds, she feels less of the tongue-tied fool she usually is around him. 

“Take a shower,” he sighs evenly, taking a breath to calm himself. “Please. I don’t want to fight.” 

“We were fighting?” she asks placidly. Her face feels warm and she knows she’s probably as red as beets. Curse him. Curse her weak will and her stupid heart. Curse everything. Why did she agree to this? Why did Hunk have to introduce her to him? Why did she accept this stupid job?

Why did she have to like him so damn much? 

Lance scrubs his face tiredly and Pidge notices his exhaustion for the first time. He’s still handsome as ever, but faint shadows smudged under his eyes.  

“I know why you’re angry.” 

“I’m not angry.”

“Fine. Frustrated. Annoyed - whatever. I know. It’s my fault, I haven't been honest with you.” 

Pidge lifts her head in surprise, the heat that had pooled in her head slowly alleviating. She wonders if he’s just placating her as some of her exes tended to do - agreeing with her for the sake of it or admitting fault (without even knowing what said fault was) just to cool her temper. But Lance isn’t an ex, let alone a one-night lover. Was he even a friend? She isn’t even sure of that.

She feels a hand on her cheek - damp from holding her jacket, but still radiating that warmth of his that she so desperately wants to surround herself with. He gives her a look she knows too well, but she’s too far in her denial and distrusts her instincts to acknowledge. It’s a look she’s worn herself many times before. 

“...what?” she asks, immediately hating how meek and small her voice sounds.

The hunger disappears and a look of hesitation takes over. He looks unsure of himself now, but he keeps his gaze trained on hers. He lifts his other hand and Pidge keeps herself still. Was he going to kiss her? Hug her? 

Lance’s hand goes over her head and he plucks a leaf out of her hair. “It’s really pouring out there, huh?” he murmurs. Pidge turns her head away, even though she knows it doesn’t hide her pink cheeks. Her hand moves on its own and fists on the front of his tank. She yanks him down until his head meets hers and she awkwardly presses her lips over his. 

She releases him as immediately as she’d pulled him down, stepping back with repetitive apologies and the tips of her ears burning. He’s quiet and she worriedly glances his way, hoping she has not offended him.

She hasn’t in the slightest. 

Lance’s hungry gaze turns something akin to _predatory_. She’d unhinged something in him and she doesn’t know if she shivers from fear or excitement.

Lance throws aside her jacket and she almost opens her mouth to sass him for it, but before she could, it’s firmly sealed over with lips. Lance’s lips.

_Holy. Fuck._

Her mind shuts down; the tension and the chills leaves her body in one languid wave. His arms wrap tightly around her, pulling her close to his chest. Her body stiffens just for a second, but as soon as his warmth surrounds her, she melts like any solid state matter. 

Her melting point: him. 

Lance’s kisses are needy, desperate and she struggles to keep up with him. He barely gives her time to breathe, grips her too close and she _loves_ it.  A hand curls in her hair, holding her in place and she couldn’t help the shiver of delight. The other slithers south and she has no complaints as it curves around her behind. Her hands shakily grip his shoulders, anchoring herself to him as she feels as if she’s falling (as if she hadn’t fallen hard enough).

He pulls away from her and she shivers as the cold returns to her body like a slap. He rests his forehead against her, their breaths mingling. “You need that shower,” he whispers, brushing a soft kiss to her forehead. It feels like a puff of air compared to the delightfully bruising one he’d just planted a few seconds ago. “You’re quivering like a leaf.”

She wants to tell him that it is entirely his doing, and further still, wants to whine about the lack of body heat from him moving away, but her mind is too foggy and her voice lost. A kiss has no business being that… _transcendent_ and he is too damn cruel to leave her hanging. 

Lance peels himself from her, chuckling at the wet patches on his clothes from her own rain-drenched ones.

“Looks like I’ll need to join you.” 

* * *

 

When she wakes up, it’s to the sound of the coffee grinder. Pidge drowsily lifts herself up, blinking wearily as sunlight filters into the too-clean room that definitively isn't hers. She shivers as the sheets slide down her body and she hastily pulls them back up.  First, panic sets in her and she wonders if it’s a work day. No, she goes to Lance’s on Friday evenings so it’s only Saturday morning. 

The second level of panic sets when she realizes she’s naked. She glances about the room until her eyes rest on the wife-beater discarded carelessly on the floor. 

_Oh._

She grips the sheets tight around her. Looks like it wasn’t just one of her fever dreams. It happened. She jumps as an oven dings and hastily pushes the covers off of her. She hunts around for her clothes, remembering with a sigh that they’d been soaking wet. 

“Your clothes are in the dryer. I washed them,” a voice comes close behind her. She squeaks and races back to the bed, covering herself with the duvet. Lance snorts and leans against the door frame, gazing at her with a look she desperately wants to punch. In the best possible way of course. He’s only in his jeans and she notices smudges of charcoal on the pockets.

“Nothing I haven’t seen - or covered with kisses.”

Her face flames and she reaches behind her to grab a pillow. Lance ducks before it could hit him, but he’s not as fast with the second as it hits him square in the chest. He mock-groans, a hand presses to his chest as though she’d shot him as he collapses onto the bed, trapping her with his body weight. She squirms against him as he lifts himself, hovering over her with a wide, goofy grin. 

“Do you remember what you said to me last night?” 

_Yes, and I am fucking mortified._

“No,” she replies stiffly. Anyone can be induced to say anything in the throes of passion. It’s just science.

But Lance isn’t deterred. Instead, he laughs and leans forward to kiss her. A chaste one that is gentle and is tinged with the deliciously inviting taste of coffee. 

“Well, I do,” he says, with a glee of a child. He presses another kiss to the tip of her nose. “And I’ll never forget it.” 

“Great,” she grumbles, shoving him off with great effort. She feels painfully aware of his gaze on her body as she walks out. “Because I’m never saying it again.” 

She hears him jump out of bed and knows he’s following her like a puppy. She regrets not stealing a shirt or a blanket as she shivers, but almost immediately, her personal human heater responds. He hugs her from behind, and she tries not to squeak out loud from how intimately he holds her. Whatever invisible barrier that had been erected between them has been thoroughly torn down - she’s glad. 

“I drew you again, while you were sleeping,” he pulls her towards the kitchen where a full breakfast spread awaits, and his sketchbook lays open on one end. He pulls it closer to her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re one deep sleeper. I tired you out good, huh?” 

He grunts as her elbow lodges itself to his abs and she tries not to faint out of sheer embarrassment. The woman looks impossibly beautiful and still impossibly her, but she sees the resemblance. It surprises her she looks this serene in her sleep; there is even a soft smile on her lips. It no longer bothers her that she’s nude - it feels appropriate for the drawing. To her, it shows her a  moment of reprise after baring her soul - her whole self, really - to him. 

Her fingers trace over faint pencil marks on the neck and she turned her head curiously over to Lance. To her surprise, he blushes. A hand lifts and he traces over the real love bites that littered her neck. “I might have been a little...overeager last night.” He tenderly kisses over a one and Pidge’s second nudge-to-the-abs is more reluctant than annoyed. 

“It’s pretty,” she murmurs, nibbling on a piece of toast and her cheeks aflame. She wonders if this is just a permanent state of being now; a flustered little girl around her crush. She refuses to refer to him as a _lover_. “Are you going to sell this?”

“No,” he says with a huff. “I never sell my sketches. Or show them to anyone.” He reaches around her and gently runs a finger over her sleeping face, careful not to smudge the intricate detail of her lashes and the exact slope of her nose. “These...they’re for my eyes. And yours, of course.” He adds quickly. 

She isn’t sure what to say and opts to mull over his words quietly. All she knows is that her heart was out of control and she’d probably needed an appointment with a cardiologist soon.

“...Pidge? Did I make you uncomfortable? You can have-”

“No, no!” she turns in his arms quickly, gripping his forearms. A brief memory of her holding onto those very ones last night flashes in her mind and she tries to keep her composure. Damn the man and his many talents. “I...I like that. That it’s private, I mean. Just for us.” 

He smiles in relief and leans down to kiss her again. He’s gentle in the mornings, she realizes. But her theory goes moot as he nibbles on her lip as he pulls away. “Good,” he sighs. “You mean too much to me. I’m not one of _those_ types. I’d rather burn a sketch than have you weirded out.” 

She flushes at the reference of her earlier barbs, but gives him a shy kiss to the cheek in quiet thanks. 

“I have a commission I’m supposed to paint today. At least, yesterday. Before, we um, got distracted.”

“Yeah?” She shivers as Lance’s finger traces over a hip bone before his hands slide up the curve of her hips to her waist; she realizes that her fantasies had _grossly_ underestimated how good that feels. 

“The props aren’t ready. Flowers aren’t due for another hour.” His voice has dropped a few octaves and she swears she will be cold in her grave before she admits how good it sounds to her. “There’s one more sketch I want to do. Just as a warm up.”

She licks her lips, feeling parched all of a sudden. That look’s back in his eyes. “What is it?” 

His look turns more coy and he winks at her. “The way you look, right after I’ve fu- _Ow_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! Hope you guys enjoyed it! Look out on Artemisarya's page for more artist/muse goodness! ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Should post the rest soon-ish! Lemme know what you thought of this! 
> 
> Also,please go support/like/reblog [Artemisarya's](https://artemisarya.tumblr.com) art!! ♥


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